#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
225 days under grass and you know more than I. they have long taken your blood, you are a dry stick in a basket. is this how it works?
To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine— just a lightbulb
by God, I don’t know what to do. they’re so nice to have around. they have a way of playing with the balls
I got his ashes, she said, and I… out to sea and I scattered his ash… they didn’t even look like ashes and the urn was weighted with
escape from the black widow spider is a miracle as great as art. what a web she can weave slowly drawing you to her she’ll embrace you
my moustache is pasted-on and my wig and my eyebrows and even my eyes... then something stuns me... the lampshades swing, I hear
red face Texas and age he’s at an L.A. racetrack
When Jonstone saw me the next 5 a.m. he spun in his swivel and his face and his shirt were the same color. But he said nothing. I didn’t care. I had been up to 2 a.m. drinking and screw...
neither does this mean the dead are at the door begging bread before
I’m soft. I dream too. I let myself dream. I dream of being famous. I dream of walking the streets of London and
around 2 a.m. in my small room after turning off the poem machine for now
not much chance, completely cut loose from purpose, he was a young man riding a bus
at the track today, Father’s Day, each paid admission was entitled to a wallet and each contained a
I went to my place, started drinking. I snapped on the radio and found some classical music. I got my Coleman lantern out of the closet. I turned out the lights and sat playing with the...
Fay was pregnant. But it didn’t change her and it didn’t change the post office either. The same clerks did all the work while the miscellaneous crew stood around and argued about sport...